


he who is not without sin (on hold)

by doqteeth



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blood and Gore, Cowboys & Cowgirls, Eventual Romance, F/M, Slow Burn, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-23 07:59:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17679512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doqteeth/pseuds/doqteeth
Summary: excerpt: "you’d much rather be out lassoing a snake oil salesman or jabbing a gun under the chin of a murderer than ambling around town with nothing better to do than drink and play cards."in which a famous bounty hunter meets a quiet man and everything rolls downhill from there.spoilers for rdr2.





	1. prologue - sunny days and bounty targets

The sun shone hot and bright in the bright blue sky on the day of some poor bastard’s hanging. 

 

It was quite a pleasant day, if you were being honest. Faint, wispy clouds streaked across the wide expanse of blue over your head, birds chased each other through the air, people’s voices carried brightly across the street as they walked together. You were in a public courtyard, leaning against the back wall, your hat drawn low over your eyes. You were there to keep the peace, more or less. The heel of your hand rested on your revolver as you watched a blue-clad lawman, with sweat shining on his face, read out the terms and charges of the man before him.

 

You hadn’t brought him in, unfortunately. You were something of a famous bounty hunter, nicknamed the “Iron Maiden” for your clean, ruthless captures and kills. You had no desire for revenge nor did you let emotions interfere with your work. If someone had a bounty, they were guilty. No amount of their pleading or begging would convince you otherwise. Of course, you had humanity, in a loose sense of the word. You’d keep your targets alive if you got more money for it, but that was it. You were a damn good bounty hunter, and people knew.

 

But no, you hadn’t brought this man in. All you’d picked up is that he’d murdered someone else for some _ thing _ else and maybe there was another charge? You hadn’t heard anything else. You stared at the doomed man curiously, watching his face. He had been holding his head high, giving little regard to the crowd beneath the gallows, but as the heavy, choking rope was wrapped around his neck, you saw the tears form. Little shining pinpricks of light that caught the sun, that dripped down the face. You sympathized with the nameless bastard, because, well, you’d been on the end of the rope once before, too.

 

You remembered the feeling--the heavy, resolute feeling of the rope settling around your neck. You had felt your own pulse reflected back against you, a racing, thrumming beat that was reminiscent of a caged bird’s. You remembered the feeling of your own mortality, the feeling of being  _ fragile _ . And most of all, you remembered when a gunshot ripped through the air, and the rope went slack ‘round your neck, and your heart leapt with a terrible thrill. Somebody had shot the rope. You remembered, vaguely, locking eyes with a dark man in the crowd. And you remembered, most of all, slipping away from those bastard lawmen, stealing a horse, and fleeing into the jaws of the unwelcoming desert, a cloud of dust following you.

 

But there was nobody coming to save this man today. The lawman who had been reading the charges exclaimed something, and suddenly, there was the sound of wood and metal moving together, and the floor gave out beneath the nameless murderer. You watched impassively as he twitched, kicked, even swayed as the rope constricted like some terrible snake, eager to squeeze the life out of him. He was a fighter, that was for sure. He clung to life desperately--you could see his chest heave frantically for a few moments--before there was a barely audible cracking sound in the courtyard, and he was still.

 

The crowd began to disperse, gossiping among themselves about the man and his crimes, but you hung back and watched for another few minutes. The body was motionless, drool dripping past the gag in its mouth, a dark trail of urine running down the pant leg.

 

Public hangings really weren’t your thing.

 

Your nose wrinkled in distaste and you stood up from the wall, soaking in the sunlight. You had no pressing matters or bounties for the day, no needs to be attended to. In fact, you hadn’t had a bounty in… what, a week now? It was disconcerting. You’d much rather be out lassoing a snake oil salesman or jabbing a gun under the chin of a murderer than ambling around town with nothing better to do than drink and play cards.

 

A creature of habit, you slipped out of the courtyard and headed in the direction of the sheriff’s office. You’d been checking the bounty wall daily with no updates, but maybe you’d actually have a break today. Your horse, a spunky young Thoroughbred named Thistle, followed after you, his warm nose shoving at you from behind in search of a treat.

 

You swung ‘round, a small smile playing on your face. You were soft for your horse, and your horse only. Of course, you’d rather be caught dead than admit to it. Thistle nickered impatiently and you obliged, digging a half-crumbled oatcake out of your satchel and offering it to him. He lipped it up with greed-hastened eagerness while you scratched his lean brindled neck. After your moment of affection, you headed ‘round to his side and swung into the saddle, patting him on the neck once more before pushing him forward into a lazy trot.

 

The town you were haunting for the moment had a name--one you couldn’t be bothered to remember. It had popped up fairly recently on the border between New Hanover and Lemoyne, a boom town based on gold and coal and oil and the like. You figured it would’ve died out by now, but it seemed to be gaining traction. There was more than one main street and there were real buildings and streetlamps lining those main streets. It was a well-put-together town. Like a mini Saint Denis.

 

Your reminiscing was cut short by the sound of an argument coming from one of the handful of the saloons in the town. Thistle’s head swung over to watch, as did yours. Two men exploded out of the saloon, hurling curses and empty insults at each other as they all but tumbled into the street. Thistle snorted, shifting a bit away from them. You kept a careful watch, your hand resting lazily on your gun--it might escalate.

 

They snarled at each other like rabid dogs, shoulders hunched and faces twisted into ugly sneers. Something unsaid passed between them, and they both backed away from each other for a minute. Then, there was a single gunshot, and one of the men collapsed in the street, dead. You raised your eyebrows--normally, arguments ended with broken noses and sour looks that were nursed and soon forgotten over whiskey. You merely watched as the other man stalked away, his face still drawn in hard lines of anger. The body lay in the street for a moment longer, before some unnamed fellow pulled it out of the way of incoming hooves and boots.

 

You shook your head and urged Thistle onward.

 

The sheriff’s office was located at the mouth of the true main street of the town. It was steel-gray and rimmed with white, and sat hunched like a great buzzard, watching,  _ waiting _ . You hitched Thistle outside and walked in. It was cool and dim inside the sheriff’s office. The air was still and thick, and had dust floating freely around it. The sheriff looked up from his desk, his eyes tired.

 

“Ah! Ms. Wheeler!” he said, sitting straighter up. “Was wondering when you’d come in.”

 

You regarded him with a watchful eye for a minute before inclining your head slightly. “Just checking up on those bounties. Got anythin’ new for me?”

 

“Yes, yes, in fact, I do.” he said, pointing behind you. “Just one, but a good one. A man kidnapped a woman and murdered her. Wanted dead or alive.”

 

You swiveled your head and grabbed the poster off the wall, scrutinizing it closer. It was a man named Hudson McConas. He was young and had deep-set eyes and a crooked nose. His hair was short but unruly, and he had little facial hair. Your nose wrinkled for a moment as you read his charges. It was as the sheriff said--murder, kidnapping and some smaller charges of robbery. His bounty was $200. Now  _ that  _ surprised you.

 

“Two  _ hundred  _ dollars?” you scoffed out with disbelief. The sheriff looked at you almost apologetically.

 

“The bastard’s proven himself to be hard as hell to catch. He slips out of our fingers every time we try and bring him in. I don’t know if you could do it, miss. He’s real dangerous. Our best  _ men _ couldn’t even land a bullet on him.” he said, wringing his hands momentarily.

 

You stared hard at the sheriff, a cold sort of offended anger rising within you. “How about you pay me to do  _ my  _ job, and you keep  _ your  _ mouth shut, sir?”

 

You folded the poster up and shoved it in your satchel before storming out the door with a hiss of a goodbye. 

 

As you pulled yourself into your saddle and rode a bit too harshly out of town, you  _ seethed _ . How dare he proclaim that you couldn’t do it, just because you were, what, a woman? How  _ dare  _ he? His men not catching this son of a bitch only meant that his men were incompetent, not that you couldn’t do it! In retrospect, it was a foolish thing to get so heated about, but you still clenched your jaw as you gripped the reins.

 

Even Thistle noticed your change of mood as you loped out of the town, your spurs digging into him. When you got onto the marshy plains, you spurred him into a gallop, feeling the cool wind blow away most of your anger. You patted him on the neck as you slowed apologetically.

 

“Sorry, boy,” you murmured, leaning forward to feed him an apple chunk. He took the apology to heart and the apple to his stomach.

 

As you rode on, the sun slowly drifted across the sky, soon beginning its daily slide down the western horizon. You turned Thistle off the path and into a small clearing that was ringed by trees. As you prepared your camp and hitched your horse for the night, you thought. You thought about the hanging, and the duel in the street, and the snap at the sheriff, and shook your head at everything. It all seemed meaningless now--the loss of life, the anger. That man died alone with a crowd of people, who despised him without ever knowing him, ogling him like a zoo animal. The other man died suddenly in the street like a dog, and was dragged away by some other. It was so…  _ quick.  _ And you were guilty of it too. The way you had snarled at the sheriff. Your habitual mind said  _ gun _ despite your rational mind saying  _ leave it _ . 

 

You lay back on your bedroll with a heavy sigh, peering up at the swath of brilliant stars that streaked and swirled above your head. It was one of your favorite sights, the night sky. Just you and the stars and the moon. You wanted to paint it, but you hadn’t painted at all in the last few months and you were no good at pencil sketching, so you opted to just stare.

 

But, eventually, your eyes grew tired and hazy, and the campfire slowly dimmed. You slipped under your bedroll’s cover and fell asleep under the sky, mosquitoes buzzing around your head and the breeze whistling in the trees.


	2. enter, pursued by a memory

You woke with an ache in your lower back and a bad taste in your mouth. The fire was dead and dark, and there was a thick layer of mist rolling along the ground. You lay for a minute ensconced in the warmth of your bedding, your foggy mind slowly clearing as you rubbed at your eyes. You sat up slowly, stretching out your arms and cracking your back the best you could. 

 

Thistle let out a soft whinny, stamping his foot. He was clearly ready to get on the road. You smiled and fed him a breakfast of oatcakes and hay to keep him busy while you tore down your camp. Ash smeared across your boots as you dragged dirt over the remnants of the fire to conceal it, even if it was poor. You rolled up your bedroll and slid it beneath the back of the saddle before stretching one final time and hauling yourself into the saddle. The sun was burning away the morning mist, and you could already tell it would be a hot day. You were, of course, eager to get into the mountains. 

 

The ride was long and mind-numbing. By the third hour in the saddle, your hips and lower back ached like a bastard. You were thankful for your hat--it kept the burning sun off your neck and it saved you from overheating. However, as you and Thistle climbed higher and higher, the air around you became colder and colder. Soon, Thistle’s hooves were scraping on frozen granite and there was snow nestled in the tree branches and rock spires surrounding you.

 

Now wrapped in a warm coat, you paused at a pond to rest both you and your horse. Thistle took a long drink from the freezing water, as did you. You ate a quick meal of roasted bird meat and canned vegetables, along with nursing a hot cup of coffee to keep yourself from shivering. Thistle, of course, got to crunch up an apple as a reward for the long, hard ride. As you huddled around your small fire, you pulled out your map and Hudson’s bounty poster. He was last seen in the Eastern Grizzlies… and you were in, what, the northern part of Cumberland Forest? As you looked around, that’s what it looked like. But, thankfully, you didn’t have far to ride.

 

After your stop, you got back onto your horse and loped up the trail. The wind picked up as you left the forest. Now with no trees to stop it, it nipped at your exposed skin and froze all your extremities. Wind wasn’t going to stop you, though. You had a  _ job _ to do.

 

This was what you were telling yourself two hours later, when you were deep in the heart of the Eastern Grizzlies and there had been no sign of this bastard. He was elusive--you’d give him that. The sun was setting, and with the night came cold and wolves. You had only three options--leave the mountains, continue your search or set up camp for the night. You were tempted to leave. There was nothing keeping you here besides Mr. McConas, and the promise of $200 with his capture. It was a pretty impressive sum for one man, but you’d seen higher bounties before. So, what could you do? 

 

Before you got the chance to make a choice, there was a snap of twigs ahead on the path. The twilight sunrays were long and dim, and provided little light to see by. Instinctively, you drew your gun--a volcanic pistol with plenty of express bullets. 

 

“Who’s there?” you said firmly, aiming towards the path ahead of you. Thistle threw his head underneath you and snorted nervously. 

 

No response except another snap of twigs.

 

You cocked the gun. “Tell me and nobody gets shot.” 

 

A man stepped out from the cover of a tree in front of you… A man who, most definitely, was  _ not  _ Hudson McConas.

 

It was a man who stood tall and had broad shoulders, and was wrapped in a well-worn blue wool coat. A battered black hat was drawn low over his brow, and his gloved hands were raised in surrender. Another passing glance revealed the gun belts and bandoliers decorating his frame.

 

“Alright, miss, don’t shoot,” he said, his voice low and cautious.

 

“Who are you?” you said, your voice sharp and demanding. The gun was heavy and cold in your hand, the gilded barrel pointing towards the stranger.

 

“Arthur. Arthur Morgan. I’m lookin’ for a man by the name of Hudson McConas, and I’m guessin’ you are too.” he said, making eye contact. His face was broad and square, and he had crows’ feet round his eyes. His jaw was set and he held a neutral expression.

 

Arthur Morgan. That was a familiar name, but where from?

 

“I am. Where’s your horse?” you asked, not lowering the gun. You watched his hands, making sure they didn’t dip near his holsters.

 

“Behind me a fair bit. Have y’ seen any sign of him?” he said, taking a few steps back.

 

You shook your head once. “No.”

 

There was a pregnant silence between the two of you. Your bristling hostility and his cautious defense made for an impassable interaction. But, to his credit, he came up with a solution.

 

“How about you and I go look for him together? Just this once. We’ll split the bounty, and y’ won’t ever have t’ see me again.” he offered. His original cautiousness was slowly dissipating.

 

You ticked your jaw for a moment while you thought it over. He seemed honest (though you did not trust him at all), and it would be easier to find this bastard McConas with two people looking for him.

 

“...Alright. Go get your horse,” you said, lowering your gun. Your shoulder twinged.

 

He nodded and backed up a few more steps before slowly turning and trudging off through the snow back down the path. He returned a few minutes later on the back of a big, bulky draft horse--it was a deep raven black and looked like a Shire to you. It snorted once or twice as it trotted towards you, but seemed unbothered by the weather. 

 

“I’m gonna look in these woods. You search back off to the southwest, back near those ponds.” you said curtly, not waiting for an answer before nudging Thistle forward. He clambered up the rocky slope and into a snowy copse of evergreens.

 

You thought more about Mr. Morgan than your bounty as you rode through the trees, the trunks dark and thick like a wall of greenery around you. He was very familiar--his name, his face, his voice--but you couldn’t place a finger on it. You were doing something very foolish by trusting him; in retrospect, you should’ve sent him on his way or shot him. But he was interested in the same goal as you, and he seemed respectable and capable enough. 

 

You shook your head and peered through what seemed to be an impenetrable thicket of spruce trees, straining your ears to hear whatever sound might be bouncing off the bark and needles. 

 

That was when you heard it.

 

A very quiet, barely audible snarl of “ _ Fuck! _ ” that was magnified by the silence of the forest. It was directly ahead of you.

 

Your real hunter skills kicked in, and you slid quietly off of Thistle’s back. He halted too, watching you curiously with big brown eyes.

 

You readied your pistol, creeping silently through the snowdrifts. The trees began to thin out, until you found yourself draped in shadow, hidden on the cusp of a small clearing in the snow. In the clearing was your bounty--Hudson McConas. He was doubled over, and clutching his leg. His unkempt hair obscured most of his features, but you could see his tightly clenched jaw from his vantage point. 

 

You could also see the newly revealed tree root that he had tripped on. 

 

You stood, and walked out of the shadows, the pale moonlight spilling upon you, washing you in white. “Hudson McConas, you’re wanted by the state of New Hanover on charges of assault, kidnapping, murder, and avoiding arrest. Put your hands up and I’ll make this easy for you.” you spat out, your gun poised and at the ready.

 

He whipped his head towards you, and you saw the harsh glint of animalistic fear in his eyes--one of a trapped rabbit in the maw of a wolf. He opened and closed his mouth frantically, and his arms twitched.

 

It happened before you even saw it--a flash of silver metal and the cocking of a revolver. Then a bang, and a groan, and your bounty lay dead in the snow, blood staining a steaming pool beneath his head. The gun lay still in his limp hand. 

 

He killed himself. Well,  _ fuck _ . 

 

There was nothing you could do but collect him now, you supposed. You straightened up and holstered your pistol, sticking your thumbs in your belt and looking up to the dark night sky with a heaving sigh. There goes that extra fifty dollars for bringing him in alive.

 

You whistled for your horse, who trotted into the clearing with a short whinny. He was at your side quickly with a huff.

 

You patted him on the neck before carefully making your way over to the corpse, making sure you didn’t trip on any unexposed tree roots. You scooped the still warm body into your arms like some morbid version of a mother carrying her child. 

 

The crunching of snow and the nicker of another horse alerted you to Mr. Morgan’s presence. You looked up to see him dismounting and walking over to you.

 

“Bastard killed himself when he saw me. Still gonna bring ‘em in,” you said, slinging the body over your shoulder almost nonchalantly. The years of carrying people and corpses had definitely given you some muscle, and you didn’t miss the stare Mr. Morgan gave you.

 

He was silent for a moment. “I’ll come with ya, if that’s alright. Needta collect my half of the bounty and all, anyways.” 

 

A retort quickly formed on your tongue, but, he deserved some of it. It was a hundred bucks--he’d probably need it more than you anyway. You swallowed your scathing response and hoisted the cold body over Thistle’s hind end, securing it to the saddle with your lasso. Now that Hudson McConas was dead, he was no longer a person. He was an  _ it _ , an object to be transported. Even if that object was human shaped.

 

You rested your forehead against the cool leather of Thistle’s saddle for a minute, cursing the corpse that was starting to bleed all over your horse. He didn’t even  _ try  _ to shoot you. Somehow, it made it more frustrating. Damn coward couldn’t even attempt to defend himself. He’d rather die frightened and hurting, alone in the snow, rather than in a gunfight or at the end of a noose. You groaned and balled your hands into fists for a moment before forcing yourself to climb into the saddle.

 

You could feel Mr. Morgan’s eyes on you as you rode with purpose out of the clearing, saying nothing.

 

The ride back to your town was long and filled with aches and occasional nips of pain in certain bruises or cuts. It was silent--something that gave you much more respect for Mr. Morgan. He didn’t attempt once to make small talk with you, save for the time he had asked your name. You had given him the standard response--’Ms. Wheeler.’ He didn’t need to know your real one.

 

In fact, nobody in the state knew your real name. To anyone who you met and asked you, you were Anne Wheeler, a nondescript woman with a steely glint in her eye. 

 

As you rode through the snowdrifts and wagon ruts, a different memory gripped you. It was one of when you were a young woman, freshly eighteen, ready to tackle the world and all its problems.

 

_ Or at least, you probably could have, if you hadn’t been struggling to breathe in a tightly-wound corset. You were standing in your old house, your mother patching up a pair of your father’s work pants in front of a crackling, spitting fire. The early morning snowfall swirled past the front windows, settling in delicate mounds on the porch.  _

 

_ You were set to marry some rich oil magnate’s son today, a holy matrimony that meant money for your struggling family. In return for your hand and obedience, your husband would pay your family handsomely. He had set eyes upon you once and decided that he fancied you, which was horseshit. You didn’t want this marriage, and your parents knew, and somehow, there you stood, wheezing in a corset and a white dress that shimmered cheerfully, ignorant of the seething girl that it was draped over. _

 

_ “I’m chokin’ in this damn corset. Why can’t I take it off?” you groaned irritably, stamping your freshly-polished boots. _

 

_ Your mother paused her needlework and made a disapproving hum, but made no motion to assist you. _

 

_ Your tone took a turn into a snarling range, your fingers hooking at the hems of the dress, starting to pull it off you. “You know I don’t want t’ do this, ma. I don’t want t’ marry this rich sonuvabitch. I don’t love him none--I barely know him!” _

 

_ The needles stopped their repetitive motions once more. They caught the firelight and turned a flickering amber. “I don’t care. Matthew will be here by noon, and I want this house cleaned and presentable. And stop cursing so much.” _

 

_ “Of course you don’t care! You never cared!” you snapped, ripping the dress off of yourself, throwing it to the floor with frustration and clawing at the laces on your corset. _

 

_ It was then that your mother rose from her chair like a growing shadow, and you were suddenly reminded why she was so imposing and impossible to fight with. But the sadness in her eyes, the dark lines in her face, the way she hesitantly came towards you with outstretched arms… it seemed gentle. But you knew better. _

 

_ You allowed her to grip your bare shoulders, a sneer of frustration still twisting your features. She caressed your cheek, her calloused fingers crooked to fit your sharp jawline. Her eyes were hollow, her voice full of empty promise. _

 

_ “I care, sweetheart. I care, but… we need money. You must marry him. You’ll be happy.” she pleaded. _

 

_ “Are you playin’ with me?” you said, shoving her back. “I’ll never be happy with someone like him! Not ever!”  _

 

_ You stormed to your room, leaving the dress in a heap on the floor. For the better part of the day you barred yourself in your bedroom, tears of shame streaking down your face and a snarl of anger keeping your teeth bared. You didn’t want this. You didn’t want your mother, you didn’t want your father, you didn’t want Matthew. _

 

_ You wanted out. _

 

_ And, since you were the epitome of making brash decisions, you packed. You waited, of course, until night, when the obscured moon provided no light and you could make your way away unnoticed. You threw practical clothes--comfortable shirts and pants and a winter coat. Cans of food stolen from your parents’ cellar were also thrown in. What little money you had was put in your satchel. The worn gun belt adorning your hips only holstered a single volcanic pistol, a gift from a friend a few months back.  _

 

_ The biting cold and swirling wind were enough to leave you hanging on the threshold of the front door, the warm, inviting light of the house spilling onto the unforgiving snow drifts and wilted trees. Then you remembered that Matthew would be looking for you tomorrow, too, and that pushed you out the door. You didn’t look back as you stole a horse from the stable, throwing a saddle on its back and galloping away from the house towards the west, towards freedom, the snowfall spiraling behind you.  _

 

It was high noon when you and Mr. Morgan loped back onto the clumsily cobbled streets, the chatter of people and familiar bustling of townsfolk surrounding you, pulling you out of your reverie. You stopped outside the sheriff’s office and dismounted, hauling the corpse off of Thistle. With distaste, you noticed the crust of dried blood from the gunshot wound that had stained Thistle’s thigh. You patted him, silently vowing to ride him through a river later and brush him down to his heart’s content.

 

Morgan trailed behind you as you carried the corpse into the sheriff’s office, dumping it on the mud-stained wooden floor with a certain lack of grace. The sheriff eyed the pair of you for a second before casting a glance at the body. He was asking what happened without words.

 

“Killed himself when he saw me--he was trapped. Do with him what y’ want.” you explained, your thumbs hooked into your gun belt.

 

The sheriff hovered around the body for a moment before deciding for himself that it was, in fact, Hudson McConas, and he was, in fact, dead. He huffed and marched over to his desk, digging out the bills from a locked drawer and forking them over to you. You flipped through them, assuring all of it was there before splitting the stack in half and handing it to Morgan. You left without a goodbye, stepping out into the street and rolling your aching shoulders. You could use a real bed.

 

Mr. Morgan followed you out after a hasty goodbye to the sheriff, and he caught you just as you were mounting your horse. “Ms. Wheeler! Thank you,” he started, raising a hand in a lazy sort of wave.

 

You interrupted him with a raise of your own gloved hand. “It’s nothin’. See ya ‘round, Mr. Morgan,” you said, inclining your head to him for a moment before turning Thistle on his heels and loping him back down the main street and out of sight. 

 

Arthur Morgan hung back, a cloud of dust billowing around him, watching the woman go. She was a curiosity, that was for sure.


End file.
